by David Marcum
“Last evening? Why did you not come immediately?” Holmes demanded.
“We needed internal approvals to seek your assistance for this one, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade replied timidly.
“Estimated time of death?” Holmes asked sharply.
“Around seven, we assume,” Lestrade replied. “The body was discovered about a quarter-past.”
Holmes’s eyes glittered. “My dear Inspector, Lord Rochester was standing in this very room at half-past-seven last evening, challenging me to a mortal combat.”
“Surely you jest!” I could not help but cry.
“Even my limited sense of humour could produce a better joke, Watson,” Holmes told me. “I believe you passed him at the stairs on your way in. That would be just about eight, if I am not wrong.”
“Then how... ?” I asked.
“How could William Rochester be lying in his hotel room if he was threatening my brother at the time?” Mycroft completed for me.
“That cannot be,” I said. “Could it have been someone else?”
“No,” Holmes replied curtly.
“My brother and I have known William for many years, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said gently. “Besides, it is impossible for a man as clever as Sherlock to mistake his identity.”
There was a very subtle shift in Holmes’s expression, but it was clear as day to me that he was pleased by his brother’s compliment.
“But if he was dead at seven, how could he be here and alive at eight?” Lestrade asked and shook his head, as if to shake off the confusing thoughts plaguing us both. “Please, would you accompany me, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes smiled slightly. “Inspector, I would be delighted to.”
A few minutes later, the four of us were bundled into Mycroft’s carriage and on our way to the scene of the crime.
“Who discovered the body?” I asked the policeman.
“A chambermaid on evening duty. The poor girl had the shock of her life. Her screams brought the steward to the room, and he called for us.” He looked at Holmes. “Gregson and I were the first to arrive at the scene. We spoke to the steward, Roberts, and he told us that the body was still warm when it was found. We sent the body to Barts, interviewed as many people as we could while awaiting the permission to seek your assistance, and when we received the consent, I left for Baker Street immediately. I have, however, asked everyone to leave the room undisturbed until I returned with you. Gregson will ensure it.”
“Well done, Inspector,” Holmes said jovially.
The sallow policeman flushed, pleased by the rare praise.
“What baffles us is the lace,” Lestrade continued.
“Lace is a delicate fabric,” Mycroft muttered.
I nodded in agreement. Being more familiar with the fairer sex than the two prodigious brothers, I knew lace was flimsy, and tore easily. In fact, the most exquisite and expensive lace would also be the most fragile. It should be impossible to strangle a man with a lace ribbon which belonged to such an esteemed personage. I said as much.
“Watson is right,” Holmes said to the inspector. “Who identified the ribbon?” His voice was calm, but his eyes glinted akin to a blade in the sunlight.
“Lord Rochester met Her Majesty for tea. The lace was a part of her ensemble. All members of Lord Rochester’s entourage have given statements to this effect. One of the palace footmen confirmed it as well.”
Mycroft frowned.
“What is it, brother?” Holmes asked immediately.
“I do not believe Her Majesty could have met anyone in London yesterday.”
Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I see,” he said finally. “Where did this supposed meeting take place, Lestrade?”
“At the Langham,” Lestrade said, consulting his notebook. “That is what the footman said.”
“May I have the name of this gentleman?” Mycroft asked the inspector.
“Thomas Byrne,” Lestrade replied.
Mycroft smiled slightly. “There is no footman by that name in the royal household. Where did you meet him?”
“He was called to the hotel by Lord Rochester’s nephew, his acquaintance.”
“Would you mind describing both these gentlemen?” Mycroft asked politely.
Lestrade nodded eagerly, clearly pleased at the older Holmes’s courtesy. Holmes himself was wont to demand answers when he was excited.
“We are almost at the Langham, gentlemen,” Holmes interrupted. “I daresay we can meet the concerned persons directly, Mycroft.”
I peered out of the window and sure enough, we were drawing up at the majestic hotel. For an instant, I wondered how it would feel to stay in the lap of luxury for a day. I dismissed the frivolous thought quickly.
We disembarked and made our way to the first floor. Lord Rochester had taken up residence in the corner suite.
Gregson met us at the door to the room and greeted us with a sombre expression. Holmes introduced him to his brother as well.
“The scene of the crime,” Lestrade declared, and waved us in. He led us to the fireplace. “This is where we found the body. He was lying face down, according to the chambermaid. The steward turned him to his side when he went to look for a pulse, and put him back as they had found him before he called us.”
“Quite astute, that fellow,” Gregson said, approval resonating in his voice.
Lestrade quickly told his colleague about Lord Rochester’s visit to Baker Street after his supposed death. Gregson paled. “A ghost... a vengeful spirit...” he mumbled.
“Now, now, let us not get carried away,” I said calmly.
Holmes, meanwhile, had whipped out his magnifying glass and was prowling around the room in what I often termed as his “bloodhound” impersonation. He flung himself on the floor and examined the carpet several times, pushed the curtains aside and examined the closed windows, peered into the fireplace and extracted some ash, and finally stood up on a chair and examined the ostentatious chandelier carefully. His antics amused the two inspectors and their subordinates greatly as they watched him silently.
I felt that Holmes was prancing about a little too much, but Mycroft nudged me gently and whispered, “The inspectors seem to have regained their spirits.”
Ah, that explained Holmes’s exaggerated movements. Method to his madness, indeed.
“I have something you would want to see, Mr. Holmes,” Gregson called and held up a fragment of lace. “The murder weapon,” he announced dramatically.
Holmes jumped up from his convoluted position on the floor and strode to where Gregson stood, waving the lace. He examined the fabric held in the policeman’s hand without making any move to touch it. I approached them as well, and the inspector handed the lace to me.
“This lace appears rather inexpensive,” I muttered, running my fingers through the coarse fabric. “I honestly cannot imagine this to be a part of our monarch’s ensemble.”
“Indeed, my dear Doctor,” Holmes said, mimicking my actions. “This is not delicate at all, and I believe I have seen one of the maids Mrs. Hudson hired recently wear something akin to this.”
I looked up at him, surprised. “I had no idea you had any interest in the maids, Holmes,” I jested.
“I do not,” Holmes protested. “I cannot help but observe.”
Mycroft and I exchanged a glance and I could not help my amusement. It was a rare but delightful treat for me to glimpse the human facet of my friend.
“Strangulation by cheap lace,” Lestrade said. “What a terrible way to die. It must be a woman out for revenge!”
“It would have to be an extraordinarily strong woman,” Holmes retorted.
I nodded in agreement. Man or woman, whoever murdered Lord Rochester, must possess colossal strength.
“Would you like to int
errogate the chambermaid and the steward?” Lestrade asked.
“If you would be so kind,” Holmes replied.
Surprised at his uncharacteristically polite demeanour, Lestrade led us to a small chamber adjoining the main room.
A teary-eyed young girl and a grim-faced young man were seated in the room. The girl dissolved in a fresh burst of tears as soon as she saw us.
I took a seat next to her and spoke to her in a soothing tone, attempting to calm her down. I offered her a sedative, which she declined. A few minutes later, she regained her composure and thanked me profusely.
Her tale was the same that Lestrade has narrated to us earlier. She was on her evening round, and she had discovered the crime when she had entered Lord Rochester’s room to clean it. In her panic, she could only scream in terror, and the steward had heard her and rushed to her aid.
“It was horrible,” she cried. Tears spilled down her cheeks again. She clutched my hands and once again, I used my medical skills to calm her down.
“Was the room locked when you entered?” Holmes asked her gently. I knew he disliked the fairer sex, but he was always chivalrous and gentle when required.
The girl - Margaret Smith - nodded. “I opened the door with a key.”
“Were the windows open?”
Miss Smith shook her head. “All windows were bolted. I opened some of them before I saw...” She burst into tears again.
Holmes patted her hand gently. “At least you were not forced to look at his face,” he murmured in a soothing voice.
The girl nodded tearfully and looked up at the steward.
We all turned to the steward - Roberts, I remembered Lestrade calling him.
“Were you well acquainted with Lord Rochester?” Holmes asked.
“I believe so. He was a regular guest at our hotel,” Roberts replied.
“What happened when you arrived?” I asked him.
“It was just before seven last evening that I heard Margaret screaming her head off. I rushed towards the sound and found myself in Lord Rochester’s room. Margaret had entered to clean, and had found him lying dead on his face in front of the fireplace. His face was blue, swollen and most unpleasant, and he appeared to have been strangled with a lace that was still around his neck. I knew he was no more, but I still wished to confirm, so I knelt and felt his wrist. There was no pulse, but he was still warm to the touch. I herded out Margaret, locked the room, and called for the police.”
“What about Lord Rochester’s personal servants?” Mycroft asked.
“He did not bring any,” Roberts replied.
“Peculiar. I was under the impression he never went anywhere without his valet - Nelson, if I am not mistaken,” Mycroft said.
“He was accompanied by his nephew at times, but no one else,” Roberts said. “I have worked at this hotel for three years, and Lord Rochester has been here several times during this period. He has never brought anyone else.”
“Might we meet this nephew?” Holmes asked the inspectors.
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade replied. “He is a guest at this hotel as well.”
Holmes nodded and turned back to the steward. “Please continue.”
Roberts grimaced. “As I said, as soon as I had confirmed that Lord Rochester was dead, I locked the room and called for the police.”
“Did you shut all the windows as well?” Holmes asked.
The steward nodded, but the chambermaid shook her head.
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
Roberts frowned at the girl. “I recall closing both windows.”
“But, sir, I had also opened the small window on the side; the one behind the curtains. It helps to air out the room while I work, and I always close it last.”
Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Was the fire lit?” he asked abruptly.
Both of them shook their heads.
“I had gone to the fireplace to start the fire when...” the girl mumbled and broke down again.
The steward glanced at the two inspectors. “Perhaps we could send Margaret home? She has had a bit of a fright. She ought to rest. I can answer any other questions you may have.”
Gregson and Lestrade glanced at the Holmes brothers, and both of them nodded subtly.
“You may go, Miss Smith,” Gregson said kindly. “Would you like me to send one of the lads with you?”
The girl nodded tearfully and thanked everyone profusely.
“I am most grateful,” the steward said to Gregson, after she left. “She is new, and this has been quite a shock for the poor thing.”
We all nodded sympathetically, and Holmes sprang from his seat and accompanied the girl to the door. They spoke quietly for a few minutes. Finally, Miss Smith smiled, shook his hand and departed in the company of a young constable. I wondered curiously what he had said to draw a smile from the hysterical girl.
Holmes returned to us. His eyes were distant, and he appeared to be deep in thought.
“If that is all, gentlemen, I would like to return to my post,” Roberts said.
“I have no more questions at the moment,” Holmes said.
“You may leave, Mr. Roberts,” Lestrade told him. “However, we would request you to remain in town for the time being.”
Roberts huffed. “Until you have caught the murderer, you mean? What if you never do?”
“Twenty-four hours,” Holmes interjected.
All faces turned to him.
“Are you saying you shall find the killer within twenty-four hours, Mr. Holmes?” Roberts asked incredulously. “I have heard that you are good, but I doubt you can be that good!”
Holmes smiled, but did not reply. Roberts sighed. “Very well, I shall be in town for the next few days. I do have a wedding to attend on Sunday, so I hope you would solve this by then.”
He left quietly.
Holmes turned to the policemen. “May we see Lord Rochester’s nephew now?” he asked.
“May we also meet the gentleman who claimed to be a part of the royal household?” Mycroft asked the policemen.
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” Gregson said immediately. “I will send one of the lads to fetch them both.”
“Do you think this Byrne fellow is an imposter, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked.
“I am certain of it,” Mycroft replied. “I am familiar with the names of all workers at the palace.”
“You said earlier that Rochester could not have met the Queen yesterday,” Sherlock Holmes said to his brother. “What did you mean?”
Mycroft smiled slightly. “Her Majesty could not have met him for tea, certainly.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The guests for tea yesterday were the Prime Minister, Lord and Lady Bentley, Lady Ashton, Lord Denning, and myself.”
We all were suitably impressed.
“Did anyone other than my brother and Dr. Watson see Lord Rochester last night?” Mycroft asked Gregson.
The inspector shook his head. “No, sir. If it were anyone but Mr. Holmes who claimed to have met the dead man, we would have put it down to one drink too many. But Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are not given to such flights of fantasy.”
Mycroft smiled. “Excellent assessment, Inspector.”
“But if we have a ghost on our hands...” Gregson shuddered.
“Did Lord Rochester have a twin brother?” Lestrade asked.
“No,” Mycroft replied.
Lestrade paled. “Then it really might be a doppelganger...”
“Do not fret, Lestrade. We shall eliminate the impossible,” Holmes declared.
“Do you have any theories?” I asked.
Holmes smirked and glanced at Mycroft. “Shall we tell them, brother?”
Before the older Holmes could respond, however, a fresh-faced constable approached Gregson with a worried look. Gregson turned to us.
“It appears that Henry Rochester and Thomas Byrne have stepped out and are expected to return for lunch,” he said. “My men will keep them here when they return.”
“In that case, I believe we are done here for now, gentlemen,” Holmes announced. “Shall we head to Barts and meet our late friend?”
“Certainly, Holmes,” I replied instantly.
Mycroft stood up slowly. “I shall accompany you, Sherlock.”
Holmes’s surprise was evident. “That is unlike you, brother,” he muttered.
“Something is amiss,” was all that the older Holmes said before he fell silent.
A short while later, we found ourselves at the morgue at Barts. A strangled corpse is always an unpleasant sight, and Lord Rochester was no different.
“It is him,” Holmes said quietly, glancing at the body. “This is the man who visited me last evening.”
“Are you certain?” Lestrade asked.
Holmes nodded silently.
“That is Lord William Rochester, indeed,” Mycroft said from the doorway. His nose was scrunched in disgust, and it was clear that he had no intention of entering the morgue. Holmes and I shared an amused glance. Mycroft Holmes was better suited to neat offices and his club; legwork was not his forte.
Lestrade and Gregson were pale, perhaps worried about the supernatural. I shook my head, annoyed. Were we not rational, scientific men of the nineteenth century?
I narrowed my eyes and focused on the dead man. Was it the same person I had passed by on the stairs to our abode last night? The clothes that hung nearby appeared to be similar, but were there any notable characteristics to the man himself that I had observed yesterday? An image suddenly flashed through my mind, that of a long scar on the side of his neck. I had glimpsed it when he had paused to adjust his muffler on the stairs.
I studied the man’s neck. Indeed, the scar was present. I said so to Holmes, and he nodded sombrely.
He proceeded to bend over the corpse and examine the marks around the neck.
“The pattern certainly matches,” he observed. “What do you think, Doctor?”